This story is mine. All rights to this story belong to me, and nobody has the right to copy or reprint any of it without my express written permission. The characters and events are created by me, but some real events are depicted as historically accurate as I can make them.
August 1972
Jeff was laughing his ass off as Case limped around the yellow demon. His ankle was throbbing and his left leg ached as its normal dull pain morphed into spasms, as if to remind him it was there.
"I told ya, dipshit. You gotta pop the release
as
you start the third kick, not before!"
Casey lifted his glare long enough to shoot the bird at Ron, then continued to walk it off.
Mounting the bike, again, he held the compression release down as he stroked the kick pedal three times, popping his finger off on the third stroke. The lone cylinder roared to life as the machine rumbled with a steady thrum of pent-up energy.
As he throttled up and released the clutch, it almost threw him as the front wheel left the ground and he rode the wheelie about 15 feet before the wheel touched down. The wind raced by as both man and machine roared down the dirt road in front of Jeff's house and then turned onto the paved Farm to Market road at the end of the lane.
He was soon out of sight but the roar could be heard fading into the distance. He was gone almost 2 hours tooling up and down roads, streets, trails and hills as he became more and more comfortable with it. By the time he turned for home, a flashing red light atop a car behind him forced him to pull over. He began taking stock of where he was and what he was doing as the dusty Plymouth Fury emblazoned with the Sheriff's Dept. logo pulled off the road behind him.
"FUCK ME," thought Casey, realizing he had no motorcycle permit, not did he have a title to prove ownership. In fact, his drivers license was probably expired. "This might get a mite ugly," he thought.
The Stetson on the head of the large, portly Sheriff of Bowie County, Texas was perfectly balanced atop a mane of silver hair. Dan Watson had been sheriff for over 20 years, and he examined the dusty biker in front of him from behind mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses.
Hitching his gun belt and spitting a pinch of tobacco onto the hot asphalt, he was the epitome of every Southern Sheriff stereotype as he strutted toward Case, his face firmly set.
"Damnation boy, I thought your ass was gone for good!"
"I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Big Dan. How's Ynez and the kids?"
The big sheriff broke into a huge grin. "We're all doin' fine, son. She'll be glad to hear you're alive. Of course, there's some will be a mite disappointed."
Casey laughed at that. "Tell them that if it's any consolation, it was a close thing a few times. How's the Judge?"
The big man frowned. "Judge Spicer passed last year. We got some Damn Yankee from Austin on the bench now. Luckily, he's an idiot, too, so it's not a big deal. I figure he won't get past this year's primary."
"Judge Spicer died? Hell I thought that old dinosaur died 20 years ago and didn't tell anyone. I figured it would take nukes to get him off the bench."
"Where you stayin'...Jeff Gaylord's place?"
"Ya. Him and Karin are letting me bunk on their couch until I get squared away."
"Good. You lookin' for a job? I know a few folks might have something."
